Gilbert Beilschmidt, Professional Screw-Up
by Charli Petidei
Summary: I am going to die tomorrow. That is all I know for sure. Me, Prussia, Gilbert Beilschmidt, professional screw-up. I am going to die. Tomorrow. - Dedicated to J. You know who you are x


**_Gilbert Beilschmidt, Professional Screw-Up_**

**A.N**

_Heya! My name is Charli Petidei, and this is my version of events the night before Prussia is dissolved. I thought I should kind of explain this fic before you read it because in the actual series I know that Prussia comes back. So..._

_In my headcanon, Gilbert stays up the night before he died thinking about what would happen to him - this fic. And the next day, when it's time to die, he finds himself lying on the floor, too weak to get up, and he knows he's gone. And then he turns to dust as the paper is signed to dissolve the state of Prussia._

_However maybe about a week later Gil comes back, resurrected as eastern Germany as Ludwig does a deal with his boss to assign half of his land to his brother just so he comes back. Everyone is shocked and the first thing many of them do when they see him (namely Roderich and Elizabeta) is slap him. Gil returns to being his old self, but more mature now, and slowly starts to rebuild his life. _

_Yeah XD that's my version of events. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the fic, and love to you all as always._

_Keep dreaming!_

_Love Charli x_

_Enjoy~!_

**_Gilbert Beilschmidt, Professional Screw-Up_**

I am going to die tomorrow.

That is the only thing I know for sure is true.

I am going to die. Tomorrow. I am.

The words circulate through my mind like fallen autumn leaves hopelessly caught in the gutter, spiralling endlessly with no destination or way to escape.

I will die tomorrow.

My chest shakes and I clench my fists. No. I will not cry. This is my last night.

I feel like I should do something momentous. Symbolic. Leave my mark on this world. Because as surely as I will gone by sunset tomorrow, I will eventually be forgotten.

After my family and friends and every single person who's ever heard my name has gone, there will be no one left who will know, that once, a boy named Gilbert, with bright red laughing eyes and hair the colour of snow, who smelt of apples and grass and the grey dust that collects on an old knight's uniform folded carefully in a cardboard box, lived in the Germanic state of Prussia, and loved music and life and love and laughter, and couldn't stand to see animals in pain, and had to turn the lights on and off twice for his little brother every night, and had so many friends but none at all at the same time, and stayed up the night before he died until 2am, counting the stars painted on his ceiling and thinking about what would happen after he was gone.

I wonder if there will be a funeral. And who would come. Francis. Antonio. Roderich. Elizabeta. Vash, out of courtesy. Alfred would, for the food.

I grin suddenly and it surprises me momentarily. I can't believe I still have the ability to find things smile fades.

Who else might come?

Feliks should. He's my neighbour. He'll get my land when I'm gone. But if he turns up to the funeral in a skirt I will have to get West to kill him. The image of him arriving in a little black dress and high heels flits through my mind and I grin again.

Ivan wouldn't come. Surely Arthur wouldn't either. I got on his nerves far to often. But I think he was a decent person.

I suddenly feel as if I should have made more of an effort in this bland, useless waste of a life I've been gifted with for many years.

My brother. He'll be at my funeral. He doesn't know I will be gone soon. I close my eyes and pray fervently for him. Ludwig.

Don't get into too much trouble. Stay away from Vash, having had one asshole with access to dangerous weapons in your life was enough - you don't need another one to step into my role. Don't cry at my funeral. Please. Keep my room at Old Fritz's house exactly as I left it. Don't get anywhere near as drunk as I always used to. The hangovers are not worth it. Oh.

And one last thing.

Do try not to fall for the little Italian. Nothing beautiful ever lasts and I don't want you to get hurt like I did.

Remember me, all of you. Don't let me go.

I feel hot tears threatening to spill from my eyes and I rub at them quickly before my face betrays my feelings. No. This is my last night. I don't need these emotions. They don't mean anything.

Yes, my last night. And I'm spending it alone. A wave of self pity rolls up in me and I dig my nails into my palms to brace myself against it. At least I know in advance what will happen to me.

At least I even have the chance to say goodbye.

Not that I'm going to take the chance or anything, but at least I know I could if I wanted to.

No, I'm not going to say goodbye. To anyone. I'm never very good at saying goodbye at the best of times, and knowing it would be leaving for the last time ever, I know I just wouldn't be able to do it. What would I say anyway?

_Hey. _

_It's me, Gil. _

_I just... I came to say goodbye. I won't ever be able to see you again, so I just wanted to say goodbye before I disappear into dust tomorrow. Yeah. I'm going to die. You better come to my funeral. Be late, suckers, and I will come back as a zombie and eat your brains, or something. _

_Whatever. And Francis, I know you won't cry, but Toni,I know you might. So I'm warning you, if you dare to cry, the same rule as for turning up late _

_applies. I will eat your brains, sentimental motherfucker. _

_And Roderich, play the Chopin Nocturne. Number nine, I think it is - uh, I mean, I don't know which one it is, I don't listen to it. Whatever. The pretty one you know I like. I... Oh, Roderich. No, goddammit, I'm not getting all teary. It's the fucking pollen. I have freaking hay fever, ok? Uh. Ludwig. Beat up anyone that doesn't turn up and bring massive bouquets of flowers to my funeral, kay? I want lots of fucking flowers, alright? And give Feli a hug from me. He and Francis are providing food at the funeral. They don't know that yet, but they better do it. If they don't, I, er, I mean, you, will kick their asses. Elizabeta - I will disown you as a knight buddy and accuse you of being a total girl if you dare to cry at the funeral. I mean, I know you probably won't, but I have to say it anyway. And please, I know you'll want to be in charge of photos of my awesome face and stuff at the funeral, but please don't use any of the ones you took of me and Roderich, unless we're both wearing more than one piece of clothing. Socks don't count. Um. _

_If Feliks starts crying at the funeral, someone hit him. Um._

_I want the service outside. Obviously you won't have a body to bury or anything, but...still... I want a funeral, ok. Outside. Wear grey and white, not black. Black doesn't suit me. And this is my funeral, not yours, bitches. And make sure there's lots of alcohol at the after party. I want you all to get fucking drunk, ok? Have a great time. With... Without me. I just... Just get drunk. Get drunk and forget about me._

A convulsive sob racks my chest and I don't push it away. There's nothing I can do. This pain is too much to handle. I thought I knew pain. But that was only physical.

Yes, physically you couldn't experience anything worse than what I've been through without being killed in the process. But this, this emotional turmoil, is so much worse. It's the knowing that after tomorrow there will be no Prussia. No Gilbert Beilschmidt. It's the imagining the pain my family and friends will have to go through as well. If I could save them, I would. It's the torment of looking back at my life and seeing that I was loved. And those I loved and those who loved me will move on and love and be loved by others.

In one hundred years time, will students in Germany be taught their country once included a small state called Prussia with beautiful people and a heritage dating back to the Teutonic Knights? Will musicians in Austria still play music inspired by my country? Will children descended from my own people even know where their ancestors came from?

Will Roderich still remember me? The way he made me believe. The way he made me trust myself. I love you, Roderich, even if you were always too posh and polite and prissy and fucking perfect to see it.

Will Ludwig try to clean up the mess I made by disappearing? I always fucked everything up; he was the one who sorted it out and made me see that someone was still there for me. I know I was a bastard and I know I made a mess of things, but you were still there to patch me up and love me, and I am so grateful. So much I could never say it.

Ludwig. I did my best to protect you, ever since you were just a child. You're not a child anymore. You're bigger and smarter and stronger and more level-headed and less reckless and generally better than me. Than I could ever be. You tell me when I'm out of line. You clear up when I go and ultimately make a great big mess of things. You sort my stupid mistakes out.

But you're still my little brother. Hell, I still try to look after you, even though you're sensible than I ever was.

But...I can't do that anymore. You're gonna have to look after yourself.

The tears are coming now and I can't stop them. I had friends and family and people who loved me and now I'm thanking them by dying. _Fucking dying._

And when I've disappeared, what the hell will be left to say that I once was here? Will anyone even recognise my name? My face?

My fingers twist into the pillowcase beneath my head and I shut my eyes. Me. Gilbert Beilschmidt. Prussia. Teutonic Knight. accomplished idiot.

I was an arsehole, I know that. I always messed up, but I did have my moments of pureness. Kindness. Surely I don't deserve to die. Not now.

Not yet.

But I guess I really can't do anything about it. After today, I will cease to exist. Just disappear. Be gone.

I throw my head backwards onto the pillow, closing my eyes again. Fine.

But if I'm dying, they better spend a ton on my funeral.

I want satin and silk and real flowers - not artificial - white lillies, a live band - no, scratch that - Roderich and his piano, a boat carrying my sword and cape from the Teutonic Knight days sailing out into the lake by Old Fritz's house, a thousand silver balloons to be let go into the starry night, so that if I am up there at all, I'll see. See that I did matter, at least to some people.

What will happen to me? I know my body will disappear into dust, I know that much. But do I have a soul? Will that stay wandering the earth? Will it be judged and allowed to go to heaven or hell depending on what is found within? I always used to believe in God, that I would undoubtedly go to heaven. But if I'm dying so young, that must mean God ordered it be so - so surely I am going to hell. Yet I still hold onto that shred of selfishness, vanity, pride, that refuses to believe I did anything that wrong. Will I go to hell, shunned by Him? Or will I go to heaven and spend the rest of eternity looking down on the earth?

Eternity.

That's a nice word.

Eternity. Oblivion. Bliss. Perfection.

They're all nice words.

Will I have a gravestone? A bench? A plaque? What would they write?

'_Dedicated to Gilbert Beilschmidt, world class idiot and professional screw-up.'_

They can't exactly write '_Gilbert Beilschmidt, wonderful older brother and fearless knight, lies here,_' can they?

Who am I kidding?

They won't even have a body.

A tear runs over the side of my face and trickles into my hair, turning my skin cold.

I don't want to die.

And as I realise it, the feeling is so strong it shocks me. No. I don't want to die. I have so much potential life left. I could do so much. Be so much.

Why is this so unfair? Why me? While the other countries carry on living for centuries, millennia, I'm going to be no more than dust.

I feel like I should do something before I disappear. Make sure my name stays for longer than I do.

I could go out and run across an overpass at midnight, screaming out into the night air just for the hell of it. I could hang over the side of a bridge, paint my name upside down on the brick and let generations of traffic know I existed. I could hide my clothes in the knot of an old oak tree, let a young child decades from now find them and pull a mud stained grey cloak, a once polished silver iron cross, and a ripped shirt and pair of trousers out of the tree's tight embrace. I could write a message on a piece of paper, put it in a bottle and throw it into the ocean to be buffeted by the waves for months. I could spell out my name with seeds on top of a hill so that when the flowers bloom, everybody can see it.

Yet none of these will last forever.

Nothing lasts forever.

Life ends.

Love vanishes.

Laughter dies.

Beauty fades.

Colours run into one another.

Night turns to morning.

Morning turns to afternoon.

Afternoon turns to evening.

Evening turns to trepidation.

Trepidation turns to fear.

Fear turns to nightmares.

Nightmares turn to reality.

Reality turns to lying on a cold stone floor with nothing and no one but an old grey cloak and an ancient sword to keep me company in the last minutes of my life.

Swords turn to metal.

Fabric turns to nothing.

Prussia turns to Poland.

And I turn to dust.


End file.
